


something wicked this way comes

by s0dafucker



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, M/M, Metamorphosis, Non-Human Character, non-human gerard, tf but not in the hot way, the author is a monsterfucker, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: trans·fig·u·ra·tionnoun- a complete change of form or appearance into a more beautiful or spiritual state.





	something wicked this way comes

**Author's Note:**

> ** cw for: **  
-bone breaking !!!! i cannot stress enough that if bones breaking makes u uncomfortable do not read this (its a broken wrist if that changes anything for some people but it is graphic!! shit snaps!!)  
-body horror and sex/intimacy w the subject of the body horror

you don't see him pick up a brush, but when you come home there are four new paintings of angels strewn about to dry. 

you reach out to touch one- it's glossy and wet and your finger comes away with the smallest dab of yellow from one of the thing's many eyes. there's a wailing coming from deeper in the house, a ghostly cry set to guitar. you know he's taken with the record player. there's an angel on the kitchen table, with lion's teeth and golden wheels; one on the shelf, its skin blue and purple and dripping blood; and one in the hall, life-size, as tall as you, as tall as him, staring, eyes crimson.  _ do not be afraid,  _ you could imagine it saying, because you'd be terrified if you met this thing in nazareth. (here, too. if you woke to it at the foot of your bed, all its wild eyes and hands and the wings that could enfold you, wings that don't fit into the canvas, stretching wide and crow-black out into the in-between- you'd scream. you'd scream and he'd wake beside you.)

the curtains are drawn in the bedroom. there's a sliver of sunlight coming through and it lands on his hands. silver-white. he turns when he hears you enter, and his eyes-

you’re not afraid, you love him, but he gives you pause- 

just the slightest shivering shock-

his eyes are brown-black and shining like pools. you think if you stared long enough his irises would ripple. wind would stir the darkness of his gaze. 

he doesn’t wake in the mornings-

too bright for his skin like porcelain, like ash- 

he only kisses you at night now, that should bother you-

but oh, who would you be if not for this horrendous, disgusting ecstasy- the heat that came in waves off the blood that dripped from the mouth like spit, like cum, like something erotic. it's perverse. it's horrible. you kissed him back and the nausea came in waves, in little spasms of the body that could resemble an orgasm, if you looked at it right. the jolting of the body and the screaming - the awful screaming - that seemed to exist outside of him and outside of you, in that yawning maw that was between your mouths. that all-consuming blackness that threatened to pull you apart. draw him closer. draw him ever so closer. let him vomit down your throat. let him gut you. 

the angel is staring at you from the foot of your bed. you want to burn it. you're going to burn it. you're on fire.

there’s a record spinning somewhere. you can hear it scratching. you can’t make out the music- but something is scratching at the inside of your skull. are you going to kiss me, he asks, smiling at you with his teeth too small and too blunt and too gray, are you going to kiss me? or just keep staring. just keep staring. maybe you’ll figure him out. 

an angel on his arm. a frightening thing. mouths instead of eyes. mouths instead of hands. mouth instead of a heart. black lines that have a harshness to them, a scribbled anger. there’s  _ rage  _ there. you don’t know how you know that. 

ray, he says. ray, i miss you. we haven’t been talking. i work too much. i’m sorry. 

it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay, you say to the angel with all of its mouths. i love you. it doesn’t reply. 

the mattress dips and creaks beside you after sundown and you shut your eyes and you want to say a prayer. you don’t remember any prayers. there’s a big black hole in your mind labeled  **GOD. ** your prayers are inside. if you could learn to lockpick you could get them. if you could learn to lockpick you could ask him what they mean, these angels and their bloodied bodies. if you could learn to lockpick maybe you wouldn’t be lying here listening. 

i miss you, he said. i miss you. 

you wake up while he’s sleeping and you take in the sunrise and you hear him scream from the bedroom.

it’s his wrist-

snapped clean in half-

dangling by a thread, dripping onto the floor, the fingers limp and lifeless-

and when you force yourself to look at his eyes you wonder for a second or less if the scream was really his. (his pupils are dilated, black overtaking his eyes, and his mouth has fallen open in something that doesn’t look like pain. you can’t read his expression and that chills you.)

sorry, he says, and then he holds his hand by the palm, gingerly lifting it. it’s hanging on by one tendon, you can see it, thin and wet-red. he lifts his hand and he centers it over the stump of his wrist, the bone that juts out, stark and white- and he pushes down to snap it in place as you watch. he grins a little. that charming, impish smile that drew you in once upon a time. in this light, it almost makes you want to run. 

he asks you to draw the curtains and shut the blinds and help him tie his hair up and you do; he hums softly, content, as you pull it up into a loose knot, looking at the silver-white skin of the back of his neck. there’s something there. the beginnings of a scar. you want to ask and instead you kiss him, and you can hear him sigh. kiss him again. kiss him until you forget the terrible things you’ve done. 

there’s an angel on your skin when you wake up. you can’t find it but you know it’s there- you can feel it, you know with a sickly certainty that he stood over you while you slept, he marked you somehow. the angel in the kitchen cabinet mocks you with its beautiful eyes. 

gerard, you whisper, gerard, i miss you. he’s painting on the back porch, the wind stirring his hair. the air smells like cigarettes and woodsmoke. you can see his hand shake. 

you kiss him and he bites you on the mouth. you kiss him and he looks like a monstrosity, all of him tangled black hair and gangly white limbs and black eyes, coal black and molten and he is so utterly grotesque and you love him. you know that better than you know anything. he smells like death. you love him. you’ve always loved him.

the angel from the porch has your eyes, embedded in the canvas. they blink when you do. they watch him when he moves. they bleed, sometimes. 

i don’t want to hurt you, he says. he is naked. you’re looking at his body. 

you won’t, you say, and you could be lying. you’re looking at his body. it doesn’t make sense to your eyes. it doesn’t look like it once did. you like it anyway. let me touch you, you say, and his black eyes crinkle at the corners. he still does that. still smiles. 

he hurts you.

the angel on the nightstand is beaten and twisted and black-red and has swords through its eyes. 

you didn’t mind, really. you told him a dozen times. his nails- you call them nails, but you can’t tell if the blackness is nail polish or paint or if it’s him now- left red-hot lines down your back, and you couldn’t see if they bled, but he cried like they did. i’m sorry, he said, and he kissed the place on your shoulder where he had torn away a chunk of your flesh. his tears burned, but you would never tell him that. 

he walks back to your room one night, when the wind is howling and the moon is gone and a flash of lightning paints him in white, bright and sharp, the harsh lines of him- and you’re frozen, adrenaline pumping through you. his eyes are flat and yellow-green and for a moment that lasts forever you are fucking terrified. you can’t comprehend him but he is a shambling mess of shadowy knives and he fills you with an existential sort of dread. a fear that is bigger than you. bigger than anything. it swells, white-cold, in your chest for one long, horrible second, and then it bursts. he is gerard again. the room is sunk back into a comforting blackness. your heart pounds in your ears with less urgency. he picks up a mug from the nightstand and leaves. 

he tastes like blood and you are beginning to love it. his mouth is hot and wet when you kiss, your hands in his hair, your hands broad enough to encompass his shoulder blades. sometimes you can get your arms all the way around him and you kiss him until he loses his breath. sometimes he presses your back to the mattress and you know he’s only mimicking breathing to make you comfortable. you wish he wouldn’t. 

he smells like rot. he tells you that his bones ache. he tells you that he loves you. 

you find him in the kitchen one night, when you’re getting a cup of water. he’s cutting his finger off. he looks guilty, when you see him- his eyes sheepish and soft in the dim light, the big knife you chop vegetables with held still in his right hand. his pinkie is half-off. 

it’s gonna go back on, he says. it just- he lifts the knife questioningly,  _ do you want to see,  _ and you nod- he pushes it through and his finger falls off, just like that. hits the tile with a small thud. he picks it up and sets it where it’s supposed to be and then- you don’t see how it happens, but his hand’s intact again. he wiggles his fingers and grins at you. you smile back. (you’re charmed, somehow.)

he’s shifting beside you. the sun’s coming through the crack in the curtains and he’s moving next to you, his fists sinking into the sheets and his body like tv static, like a murder of crows, his bones creaking and pushing at his skin. you kiss him. he’s fever-warm. he mumbles something pained. 

the angel on the kitchen table is pink-blue and made of arms and hands and glowing softly and you hold him when he wakes. you stay awake until sunrise with him. he puts a cure record on. you kiss him. you kiss him. you kiss him. his heart devours yours. 

**Author's Note:**

> hm i wish i could say i did this for halloween but no i just love body horror and angels being terrifying


End file.
